The Interview
by CarminaVulcana
Summary: What if Vulcans were blamed for the actions of Nero? What if they were made to face further consequences for Nero's crimes even after losing their planet?


Why did I become a journalist?

This thought had crossed my head multiple times during my career but that afternoon, I was seriously considering quitting. I didn't want to be here. I really didn't.

The waiting area was cold and sterile. In some ways, the whole building was like that. Technically, it was a museum and a research institute. But for some reason, it reminded me of a hospital. The spotless grey marble floor, the pale green walls, the gleaming furniture made brighter still by the very white light that shone from the ceiling- I suppose the idea was to keep things sanitary and clean. Unfortunately, it gave me the creeps. Even the artwork on the walls was weird. At that moment, I was staring at a painting of a ballerina poised in the first arabesque position with the tip of her left foot resting on the tip of a Narwhal's tusk. Morbid. Disturbing. Unreal.

I swallowed involuntarily. I didn't want to be here. I would have done anything in that moment to trade positions with Steinfield. But I had asked for this job and gotten it over him, much to his irritation. Now I was questioning my foolishness. Was I even the right person to tell a story of this sort? Wasn't I a fluff writer- Hollywood divorces, glamorous couples, celebrity break-ups. What was I doing in this place which was little more than a memorial to a terrible historical event.

"Mr. Victor Nelson, I presume."

I jumped at the deep baritone voice. For a moment, I stood frozen. Then, I turned around.

"Yes, him...er.. I mean, I...I'm him…" I stammered. Damn, this was not how it was supposed to go. But the old man's eyes softened and I think I saw just a tiny bit of humor in them.

"Ambassador Sarek," he said smoothly.

"Pleased to meet you, Sir," I managed to say without tripping over my tongue. Phew, what a relief. "I… You know why I'm here, right?"

"Affirmative," the ex-diplomat said. "You wish to converse with me about events that took place 14 years, eight months, and two days ago."

Did all Vulcans speak with such precision? Boy, was it odd. The ball of dread in my stomach tightened.

"Yes, you are right… sir,"

"Please call me Sarek," the old Vulcan said. "Courtesies and formalities do not serve any purpose in the current circumstances."

With that, he turned around and it looked like he wanted me to follow him. So that's what I did.

He led me to a small meeting room. It was more homey than the reception area. The walls were a warmer shade of off-white and the chairs were cushioned.

"Would you prefer tea or fruit juice?" Sarek asked.

"Er...I don't need anything, please, don't trouble… I mean, I don't want to bother you." Oh no, I was doing it again. Why couldn't I speak to the man without fumbling like an idiot.

But again, I detected just a glimmer of humor in his dark eyes.

"I will not insist," he said softly. "However, if you change your mind, you have but to ask."

And as I switched on my recorder, he lowered himself into a chair opposite from me, nursing a clear glass with some kind of herbal tea in it. He caught me looking at it.

"Oolong. A terran variety. My son favored it very much."

I nodded.

"So, let's start?" I asked. "Are you okay with me recording this conversation for accuracy purposes?"

"Certainly," Sarek answered. "Where would you like me to begin?"

"That day," I said. "That festival. Why did you insist on celebrating even in the Klingon camp?"

At that, the old Vulcan's expression became haunted. And I felt like a total jerk for having asked that question. I mean, I didn't want to but someone had come and suggested the idea to my editor and he had gotten excited. The Story of the century, he had called it. And my two seconds of greed for glory had landed me the fancy assignment. But hell, I didn't know I'd actually get it. In any case this was my job now. And I had interviewed hundreds of people before. Why should Sarek be any different?

 _"But you never had to interview a victim of the Ek'staya,"_ a snide little voice inside me said.

That Vulcan word did little to convey the horror of the Extermination. After the destruction of Vulcan, most people had thought that the remaining members of the now endangered race would be welcomed on all Federation worlds and that they would be given all kinds of help and support.

But to everyone's shock, that had not happened. Pandemonium and mass-hysteria had swept through numerous worlds and everyone seemed to blame the Vulcans for bringing Nero's wrath upon the federation. Nobody paid attention to the disaster that had been averted. For them, the horror was that it could have happened- had very nearly happened. And while every sane person knew that the mad Romulan had been killed, there were enough groups that refused to acknowledge it. And then there were those who wanted to see them punished. After all, who knew what other enemies they had that were just waiting to emerge from another black hole. The Klingons especially, had issued orders that all surviving Vulcans be handed over to them. Nero had destroyed two-thirds of their entire fleet of warships and murdered close to 16,000 Klingon soldiers in the process. When the Federation had refused to cooperate, they had threatened war. It took the destruction of the Human colony on Elisium to get the Federation thinking.

And that incident also turned the sympathy of other Federation planets against the surviving Vulcans.

But most surprisingly, nobody had to commit the ghastly act of handing them over to the Klingons. The surviving elders themselves agreed that it was the logical thing to do. Some 3 million colonists had been killed on Elisium. It was shameful and terrible that such loss of life should occur for 10,000 homeless Vulcans. It was illogical.

And just like that, packed like sardines in 16 giant cargo ships, they had delivered themselves to the Klingons for Ek'staya- extermination.

But first, they were put to work to rebuild what the Klingons had lost in their battle against the Narada. They were made to build ships, weapons, buildings, and the dignity of the humiliated, angry citizens of the empire who were thirsting for revenge.

Among the thousands who had perished in the three years of the Ek'staya, was Ambassador Sarek's young son- Commander Spock of the USS Enterprise. And even though he had voluntarily followed his people to their collective doom, many people on Earth remembered him as one of the heroes of the Narada incident.

For a long moment, Sarek did not speak. Considering the things he had seen, it was not surprising, but I was getting restless. Still, I couldn't force him to talk. Maybe it would be better to come another day.

"If you'd like, we can do this another time," I said, trying to sound sympethetic but not pitying. My boss would be angry but I couldn't force a source to talk. If Sarek wasn't feeling up to it, he just wasn't feeling up to it. And I was no monster.

But the old Vulcan surprised me.

"No, I am ready to begin," he said softly. "The observance. You wish to know why we chose to observe the day of Kal-Rekk."

"Erm... yes," I said.

"I… I do not know the length of time you have," he said, hesitant for the first time that afternoon. "My emotional control is inadequate with regards to the Ek'staya."

That had to be the understatement of the century. The Ek'staya had driven many older Vulcans to suicide even after the liberation. And even today, they had not recovered. The colony on New Vulcan was no more than a shadow of what it could have been. There was one tiny research station, a temple, a school, a few hundred housing complexes, and dozens of hospices for the terminally ill and permanently disabled. All this for less than some 2,100 Vulcans, most of whom were suffering from telepathic shock in varying degrees.

"Please go ahead, I have nowhere else to be today, take your time, sir…" I said. This time Sarek did not ask me to not call him sir. He was too busy gathering his thoughts.

"It was our 325th day in the camp," he began in a somewhat mechanical voice.

"Every day, we woke up at daybreak with the first bell. And we worked till sunset. After that, we gathered in the central courtyard for a roll-call and sometimes, interrogations and punishments. We were not allowed clothing for the upper body nor the luxury of sonic showers. I hoped the women were being treated better than us. But I could not be certain. They were kept in a separate camp and we never saw any of them until after the liberation. Water was scarce. It was always cold in the camp. We endeavored to bathe every week but on some occasions, it was not viable for everyone. The strict rationing of water ensured that often, the choice was between bathing and drinking. Spock had always been a fastidious child. He despised the sensation of grime on his skin. His dislike was intensified by the work he had been assigned. From dawn to noon, he worked in the mine. From noon to dusk, he cleaned the drain and the cesspit of the north block. The stench of bodily waste, rotting food, dead animals, and other unidentifiable materials clung to him because of that work. Needless to say, on most nights, he chose to wash himself as thoroughly as he could. But that meant he had less water to drink during the day. The back-breaking labor made it more cruel than it should have been. In addition to that, there was never enough food. Most of us were given no more than a small piece of bread and a cup of coarse oatmeal each day. As the days passed, it became harder to focus on tasks, mistakes became more common and punishment was swift and brutal. I saw my son whipped twice for failing to return his tools on time. And even as he bled profusely from his wounds, he refused to make a sound. His bond with me was tightly shielded from his side. I could only watch. For if I had tried to save him or comfort him, he would have been killed. I was assigned to the welding opportunities to interact with each other was limited. Contact between family members was forbidden. Spock and I sometimes reassured each other through our parental bond. But for the most part, it was difficult. We were starving and malnourished, cold, and often injured. It was illogical to put extra strain on the body for telepathic communication."

By this point, his voice was trembling. His long fingers were clenched around his cup o of tea. And I did not say it, but while his testimony was coherent and detailed, it was fragmented, and did not follow any order. It was less than rambling but more than a plain narrative. Without saying anything, I poured him a glass of water and placed it in front of him on the coffee table.

But he did not even take a sip.

"I apologize," he said after several minutes. "I do not remember where I started my narration from." Embarrassed, he looked down. Vulcans did not forget what they were talking about. Clearly, a lot had changed for them. And every single thing I had ever read about the Ek'staya was reflected in Sarek's tormented eyes.

"You were telling me about Kal-Rekk and the 325th day at the camp," I mumbled.

"I was," Sarek acknowledged and closed his eyes. He sighed inaudibly, as if to try and regain his composure.

"It was indeed the 325th day. Vulcans have an extremely precise sense of time. Each one of us knew it was the day of Kal-Rekk, the day of silence and remembrance. On Vulcan, the day of Kal-Rekk was a planet-wide observance. Schools, seminaries, the science academy, government offices, markets, private commercial establishments- all remained closed. Only emergency services like medical centers and law enforcement remained open. From dusk till dawn, families meditated together. This was done in order to ensure the strength of familial bonds and to heal the injuries incurred by these bonds during the course of the year. For families that had not experienced illness or death, observance was ceremonial. For families that had experienced loss that year, the observance was a much needed time for recovery and prayer."

Sarek looked at me then with a lost, pleading expression on his face. I nodded encouragingly.

"It was our first Kal-Rekk after the destruction of our home world," he whispered.

I gasped at that. I could see where this was going and I was suddenly very afraid of listening to the rest of the story. And I think Sarek sensed my unease.

"We can stop if you'd like," he said gently. "This isn't an easy account to hear."

"Please continue," I said shakily. I forced myself to remember that this was a job I was doing. I had been trained to do this.

And so, Sarek went on.

"Like every day, we reported to our respective camp officers, collected our tools, and started working on our tasks. Elder Satek was working next to me that day. He had been a master at Gol and he was perhaps the most calm, logical one in the camp. He had never addressed me before. But while working on a nacelle part for a new ship, he let me know softly that the day of Kal-Rekk would be observed at night, after the last bell. It was risky but so many of our people were suffering from the pain of broken bonds. We needed this to ensure our continued survival. Though now I am forced to wonder why we cared. We did not hope for liberation. Why then, were we determined to live each day. I still do not have that answer. In any event, the day went by slowly. But the the grief of my wife's passing that I had firmly held at bay all these months, threatened to consume me. Suddenly, I needed the observance. I longed to meditate with my son, to mourn the passing of his mother, and to begin the process of healing the void her death had left in our minds."

"We… we know the Kal-Rekk did happen," I said, a sense of foreboding gripping me. "It did, right?"

"It did. Late at night, after we were certain that the guards were asleep, we came out of our quarters in small groups of three and four. With great caution and stealth, we gathered in the courtyard. And for the first time in 325 days, I looked my son in the eye, touched him, asked him if he was well….."

A choked sob escaped from Sarek's lips then. He took a deep breath to get his emotions back in control. I felt awkward sitting there like a dummy, unable to do anything to comfort him.

Much to my relief though, he started speaking again after a few minutes. Again, his voice was back to its mechanical, emotionless tone.

"Sa-Mekh… that was the first thing he said. And I drew him into my arms and embraced him. I don't think I had ever embraced my son before that moment. He stiffened for a moment but to my relief and joy, he returned my embrace. And then we sat down next to each other, cross-legged, for we were about to begin the Satek did not have a votive candle to light. But Qo'onos has three natural satellites and each of those was visible in the night sky. Maybe it was providence and we later discovered that it was indeed rare for all three moons to be visible from a single location. It was rarer still that it was a full-moon night for each of them. We do not believe in coincidences. However, we do believe in the source of all things. Perhaps, this was a sign from the source that had created us and preserved us through Nero's genocide and now in the harsh conditions of the Klingon camp. Surrounded by the malnourished, tired bodies of my brethren, I was forced to ask myself yet again, why we fought to survive. But the sound of my son's even breathing answered my question almost immediately. I survived for him. And he survived for me. And hence, along with the rest of my people, I looked towards the three moons of Qo'onos and closed my eyes in remembrance. The warmth and succor I found in such close proximity to my son is indescribable. The physical and telepathic closeness allowed us both to meditate and re-anchor ourselves to each other and to the rest of our people. For two hours and 26 minutes, we observed Kal-Rekk in peace."

"Why two hours and 26 minutes?" I asked.

"After that, the Klingon guards came. Somehow, they had realized that we were holding a congregation in the courtyard."

Sarek fell silent. He didn't need to say what happened after the guards came.

But then he continued speaking.

"Elder Satek was executed in front of us. He was chained and made to kneel. They then carved his heart out with a dagger. We watched in silence as the elder bore his agony and his end with dignity. The rest of us were made to stand in a single queue and branded with hot irons on the palms of both hands. They sought to destroy the most potent telepathic nerve clusters of our body. For the most part, they succeeded. But it did not end at that. Those of us with live parental bonds were taken into the center of the courtyard and punished. They took our children and made us watch as they mutilated the right ear and the right eye of each one of them… We did not observe Kal-Rekk ever again. Even now, 12 years after liberation, we do not observe it. As for myself, I do not have anyone left to observe it with. A few months before the liberation, Spock succumbed to an infection brought on by several open wounds in his left leg."

"I am so sorry," I said. The words felt inadequate and meaningless on my tongue. My brain felt like cotton wool.

"Do not be," Sarek said. "What is, is. Do you have what you require?"

I nodded.

"Then I believe our meeting is concluded. I must return to the reception area. My son is waiting for me."

"Son?" I asked dumbly. Had I misheard something. Did Sarek have another son? How was that possible.

"I apologize," Sarek said. "My other son."

The old Vulcan stood up shakily on his feet. Two hours ago, I would not have noticed the slight tremor in his hands nor the wet cloudiness of his eyes. But now that I knew his story, I saw how aged, how exhausted he looked. Even then, there was something regal about him, something I couldn't touch, something those Klingons had also not been able to touch.

I held the door open for him as he slowly walked out. He tilted his head in thanks.

I walked a few steps behind him as he made his way to the reception. A handsome, blonde man was waiting for him.

Startled, I realized who it was. Admiral James T. Kirk, the man who had saved the federation twice, once from Nero and then from their own conscience. He had been instrumental in mobilizing diplomatic support for the liberation of the Vulcans and ultimately, he had led the federation to war against the Klingons after the failure of diplomatic channels.

James Kirk was seen as a fearsome man.

And Sarek had him, despite having lost everything else.

Suddenly, I felt better.

Two weeks later, my article appeared in our magazine, Galactica. My boss was impressed and he offered me a raise and a promotion. Of course, I accepted. I received rave reviews from numerous readers and even got nominated for a number of prestigious journalism awards.

But the best praise came from a plain note that I found on my desk a few days later.

 _"Thank you for hearing him out. I never had the courage."_

I didn't immediately know who it was from, but a tiny Starfleet watermark at the bottom of the page confirmed my hunch.

I think, in that moment I knew why I became a journalist.

 **Chapter End Notes:**

 **Thank you for reading. Let me know what you think. Your reviews mean the world to me. Also, if the real-world parallels were clear to you, you might wish to read my blogpost about Hanukkah in Bergen Belsen, one of the numerous concentration camps set up by the Nazis. Find it on deltavie.c o m.**


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